


Your Life Is A Series Of Bad Ideas

by Axis2ClusterB



Series: Best of the Worst [4]
Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drug Use, M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Axis2ClusterB/pseuds/Axis2ClusterB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a car bomb, and revelations of a sort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Life Is A Series Of Bad Ideas

**Author's Note:**

> Messing with timelines with aplomb.

You realize it just before everyone else. You're running to Chibs as he's moving across the parking lot, just before the fucking minivan explodes and he goes flying. You stop short because you're so scared to touch him, so afraid of that pool of thick, almost-black blood in an ever-widening pool underneath his fragile skull.

Then there's noise, voices yelling and sirens screaming and Tara bending the delicate shell of her ear to his chest, her small hands ripping his cut and shirt open and flexing over his chest, rhythmic and even and pushing hard. Moving his heart for him. Her mouth over his, air in and out, moving his breath for him. You make yourself move, dropping to your knees and you feel the concrete erase some of the skin there but you cup his head, hold it in place for her.

It doesn't make you feel any more useful.

*

The ambulance pulls away, lights and sirens, and you find yourself extraneous again. You watch while Clay pulls Unser into church; while Jax talks quietly to Hale; as something you don't quite get happens between Tara and Gemma. There's no real place for you in any of this, and so you pick up Chibs's sunglasses - miraculously unbroken - and tuck them into the inner pocket of your cut. He'll want them later. You desperately want to believe that he'll want them later.

What you want to do is jump on your Dyna and race the ambulance to St Thomas, meet them at the ER, follow the stretcher to surgery and fucking protocol be damned. What you find yourself doing is trailing Jax into the clubhouse, taking your seat in church, offering your opinions and your vote.

Hoping vaguely that any of it matters in the end.

*

You find yourself in bed, eventually - his side of the bed that you've shared more often than not for longer than any of your brothers would believe. You pull his pillow to your face - inhale the scent memory of his shampoo and feel your dick get hard, even as your eyes sting and burn. You fall asleep because you make yourself, and it's thin and restless and full of horrors.

It's a relief when you wake up an hour before your alarm goes off.

*

You ball your fists against your will when you hear Bobby assert that Chibs blew himself up. You know the party line, but that doesn't make it any easier to hear. It's worse than a personal affront - it's an affront against him, an assumption that he'd be stupid enough to pull something like that.

You make yourself back off at Clay's orders, hear yourself mutter something that sounds like, "Sparkle and shine," go inside and grab some heavy-duty gloves and some crime-lab thwarting chemicals. Of course, it's too late.

Until Unser presses a warm cup of piss into your hand.

And then you have it. One of those flashes of inspiration that Chibs swears falls under the heading of idiot savant, and you press the cup back into Unser's hand - whisper a few words to him and move to the old car that the brakes haven't been fixed on. There's a certain sense of glee as you gun it toward Unser and the crime lab guys.

Of course, Unser fucks it up. 

It's gonna be your fault, though, and that's ok.

*

It seems like it's forever before you manage to get away. Get yourself to St Thomas, get yourself into ICU - and you're gonna owe Tara for that - get yourself to Chibs's room. You let yourself in quietly, hospital-silence hanging like a weight over your head, and you're halfway to the chair beside his bed when you realize it's occupied.

She's beautiful, smooth dark skin and a ridiculous riot of curls, and she's looking at you like she knows your whole life story. You pull up short, find yourself stammering, and then she's up and her cool hand is pressed into yours. "Fiona Larkin," she says, voice flowing over you in a river of smooth Irish tones. "I'm his wife."

You get the impression through the riot of *feelings* that you're drowning in that those are words that she uses as both shield and sword, and they've both blocked and pierced you. If you had a tail, it would be between your legs as you leave, walk through the haze to your bike, ride on auto-pilot back to the home that holds the bed that you share with him. The sun is still high in the sky when you pull the blankets that smell like both of you around you and close your eyes and wait for the Valium to hit.

*

The time in jail does you good. Makes you remember that there are things about your life that Chibs doesn't know. Not a WIFE, sure, but things like hiding under a bed with your sisters when your step-dad was on a tear, pissing him off so he'd hit you instead of them, the reasons why you haven't spoken to anyone in your family in the last ten years, when you finally realized it was too toxic to deal with.

The time in the infirmary does you more good. That whole trite rap about how being close to death makes you realize what's important, and blah blah blah. You pull that to you like a blanket, like the morphine they keep giving you, let it sink you into rest.

*

You manage to get yourself to his room again. You're moving slow, the stitches in your back pulling with every step, but the chair is empty so it's worth it. You sink down, watch him sleep, hope it's restful because you know Tara's delayed all she can and he's leaving today. You think of all that you want to say to him, all of things that he needs to know, but when his eyes open and he focuses on you, all you can say is, "So. You're married." You can't even look at him when you say it, your eyes boring into the bland hospital wallpaper three feet to the side of his head, but you can still see him flinch.

"Aye," he says, and you can see him looking for the words, even as he's drifting off on a haze of drugs. You don't intend to move, but the next thing you know, your back's screaming and your fingers are wrapped through his.

"We've got time," you murmur. "We've always got time."

-End


End file.
